


A Life of the Pen

by bloodofthepen



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-15
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-24 21:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1616948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodofthepen/pseuds/bloodofthepen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Varric's life is that of a storyteller, and the writing life is not always easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Life of the Pen

Writing is hard work; don’t let anyone tell you differently.

  
Most nights, Varric stays up past the third bell with ink-stains on his fingers and drops of ale dotting his parchment. There is sand on the floor beneath his chair where grains have escaped the duty of drying ink, and the only sounds to be heard are the drunkards in the street, cast out of the taverns, a whore practicing her trade in the room next door, and the tune on his own lips as he writes. Sometimes, thereare words on his breath as he works a story instead of a ballad. Occasionally, there is a vicious scratch from his pen as he gives up and decides to rework an image.

  
_Andraste’s ass and Paragons’ pantaloons it’s difficult._

  
Sometimes, he works through dawn and doesn’t realize it until Hawke comes prancing through his door to find he’s right where she left him and he doesn’t have the heart to tell her he hasn’t slept and will be absolute shit on whatever mission she has planned; it would be a shame to miss out on an opportunity for further inspiration.

  
Varric finds he is a slave to the pen, and would not have it otherwise.

  
More often, however, in a fit of inspiration after a game of Wicked Grace, Varric works on The Ballad. The Ballad of Hawke, actually (or maybe it’s The Ballad of the Champion), and there’s always something to say—it’s an ongoing story, after all, and one of his best. He finds there’s a melody on his breath and words on his lips as his hands work parchment, pen, ink, blotter, and sand. Words smear in grey clouds, and when his tankard is dry he doesn’t notice, and finds himself bringing it to his lips and sipping on air every hour or so. And then, at some point near morning, Varric’s head rests on the parchment, words stained on his cheek, pen pooling its ink on the table as he snores.

  
He should probably be embarrassed that anyone has to see him in that state, but if somebody has to tuck him into bed in the morning, he’s glad it’s his muse that clicks her tongue and locks the door behind her with a shake of her head, leaving the storyteller to slumber in peace.


End file.
